


Shakespeare and the Young Man

by Vivion



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Shakespeare, Shakespearean Sonnets, poet!Victor, shakespeare au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivion/pseuds/Vivion
Summary: 126 of Shakespeare sonnets are addressed to a young man, often referenced as the "Fair Youth". Many readers, noting the usage of romantic and loving language in these sonnets, have suggested the possibility of a sexual relationship between Shakespeare and the young man; others have read their relationship to be of platonic love. However, the identity of the young man remains a mystery.- Victor Nikiforov, famed poet writing under the guise of W. Shakespeare, is suffering from the worse kind of writers block -  the kind that leaves him empty and isolated. That is until he asks a young man a simple question.





	

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start of by saying, if you are familiar with a certain Gravity Falls story of mine, you should know that I technically shouldn't even be writing this. But, the idea came to me and simply put, it wouldn't go away. So, here it is. 
> 
> This is going to be a little experimental. The formatting of this story is going to be a little weird at first, but bear with me because they all connect in some way. I'll go into more detail of the story and structure at the end of this chapter, so, without further ado, please enjoy ~
> 
> \- V
> 
> P.S. there may be some grammar mistakes, so apologies in advance!

 

TO . THE . ONLIE . BEGETTER . OF .

THESE . INSVING . SONNETS .

Mr . W . H. ALL . HAPPINESSE .

AND . THAT . ETERNITIE .

PROMISED .

BY .

OVR . EVER-LIVING . POET .

WISHETH .

THE . WELL-WISHING .

ADVENTVRER . IN .

SETTING .

FORTH . 

                                T. T.

 

* * *

 

_From fairest creatures we desire increase,_

_That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,_

_But as the riper should by time decease,_

_His tender heir might bear his memory:_

 

Thirteen days.

 

It’s been thirteen days since Victor Nikiforov has stepped foot outside of his apartment. Thirteen days since he’s seen the sun, having closed the curtains over every single window there was. Thirteen days since he’s heard the hustle and bustle from the city, now replaced by the silence of the complex, save for the occasional bump or bang from his neighbours. Thirteen days since he’s tasted a decent meal, his fridge nearly empty now, though his cooking skills didn’t exceed past the most basic of meals. Thirteen days since he’s smelled the fresh air that was soon turning cold and crisp, the air in the apartment was getting stale and suffocating, no matter how many candles he lit in attempts to mask it. And it’s been thirteen days since he’s felt the once comforting weight of his favorite pen, a simple solid black thing laying on the cluttered desk in the corner of his living room.

 

Victor eyed the pen from the couch, blankets from last night's’ slumber tangled about his waist and legs. He felt the pen laughing at him from afar. ‘Look at you,’ it mocked. ‘You’re at your wits end! Almost two weeks of solitude and you haven’t lifted me up once.’

 

“It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose,” Victor argued back, the sound of his own voice startling him just a bit. He groaned, frustration making his fingers twitch as he buried his face in his hands, mumbling, “I’ve been doing my best, alright?”

 

His “best” equated to the numerous amounts of scratch paper that littered his dining room table, every single one filled front to back with various ideas, dreams, or random thoughts that crossed his mind in these tiresome days. Each paper was written in pencil with vain, each a possible spark of hope for Victor, an inspiration, only to end up crumbled up or torn. They just weren’t good enough. None of them struck him with a passion to pursue. A tease undesired.

 

‘Say what you want,’ the pen replied silently. ‘Until you create something memorable and worth writing, there’s no way you’re picking me up.’

 

And with that, the pen became nothing more than a writing instrument collecting dust. Victor sat there for several moments longer, questioning if the conversation between the pen and him even took place. He thought about it for longer than he should, his eyes flickering over to the digital clock that sat on the desk as well. It read 8:23 A.M.. His stomach growled. He knew the contents of the fridge, none of which could potentially become a plate of breakfast food. Not a healthy one anyway. He sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get outside, even if just for a little bit.

 

Victor untangled himself from the blankets, rising to his feet. He dumped them onto the couch, vowing to fold them later, and proceeded to make his way to the bathroom whilst trying not to trip over anything. His once pristine apartment was now quite dirty. Dishes were stacked on top of one another, forming a precarious tower inside of the kitchen sink. Discarded shirts and pants found a new home on the floor. He could see where scraps of paper had fallen from the dining room table and onto the ground, though how those scraps ended up in the living room area was beyond him. The place could use a nice dusting to say the least, and it didn’t help matters none when all he’s done is sit and stare at blank pages all day and night.

 

He makes it to the bathroom and flips the lightswitch up. His eyes squint as they slowly adjust to the fluorescent lighting. Victor looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, unsurprised at his reflection. He’s lost a little bit of weight; the meals he made for himself the past days weren’t filling by any means. His bed head is severe, but he tames the silver strands pretty quickly with his hands. It’s gotten long too, long enough for him to pull it back into a small ponytail like he was currently doing. Victor let it grow out once before when he was younger, having then cut it when his first creative piece was published. He was only 19.

 

It was only supposed to be an ameatur play, one that he didn’t expect much to come out of and one he wrote for no real audience other than himself. But soon his publisher’s phone was blowing up with calls for interviews, calls from other publishers, and calls from the general public. It was as if Victor’s life was turned upside down within a month's time. By the urging of his publisher, he quit college to write full time comfortably from his own home. Days, weeks, months, years passed, all of which were filled with nothing more than writing, writing, writing, writing. The passion to write became his sheer breath, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. It had gotten to the point where his social life diminished really, even though they all remain in good ties.

 

His publisher recommended that he get a pet to keep him company on the days where he locked himself in his apartment. Said pet came to be a giant brown poodle he named Makkachin. Currently, Victor knew exactly where the poodle was, tucked under the blankets of his bed, fast asleep. Makkachin had been resting there the entirety of the last evening, and Victor, being the dutiful owner that he was, refused to move the sleeping poodle.

 

Victor’s eyes met his reflection’s. He could trace the ever faint, tired lines on his face, the deep bags under his eyes. He was 27 now. It was starting to show. 8 years can do a lot to a man. Any man really. Over the course of 8 years he’s published nearly 25 plays. All of which are completely unique, all different page ranges, all different ideas and themes woven into expressive words that only _he_ can arrange. And yet, _he_ is the only one similarity that ties them all together.

 

_W. Shakespeare._

 

It was an odd choice for a pen name really. The name came to him a dream that he couldn’t forget, a dream where he sat, alone in an empty space, staring down at a black pen on the ground. He reached down to pick up the pen, hesitant at first. Was he _ready_ ? Was he _willing_? He didn’t feel steady, but he was continuing. The tips of his fingers lightly caressed the pen. Smooth, pristine. He was suddenly then filled with a desire, an overflowing passion to create, and he grabbed the pen as if it would disappear within seconds, and the name was whispered into his ear by a man’s voice so soft and gentle that he’d never forget how he sounded, or the words he spoke.

 

Victor blinks, coming back from the reverie. He needs food. He was just leaving. He takes the time to splash cold water over his face with the hopes that it would awaken his senses more. Walking back out into the living space, Victor picks up a jacket he left lying on one of the dining table chairs and slings it on. He snags his keys and wallet from the dining table as well, making sure he had enough money to buy food as he walks towards the front door. Victor calls to Makkachin, telling the poodle he would be back soon. He pulls the door open and ─

 

‘You probably should have taken a shower.’

 

Victor turns on his heels, his response already falling from his lips without thought, “I don’t need to shower, and how would you even know if I smelled bad? You’re just a pen!”

 

With a huff, he closes the front door, hearing it lock with an audible click. But when he turns to walk down the hallway, he comes face to face with his neighbour, who’s looking at him strangely. Heat immediately blooms across Victor’s features, and, embarrassed, he pardons himself in a haste. ‘Great, now my neighbour thinks I’m the crazy, shut in pen whisperer,’ Victor thinks with an audible sigh. ‘I need to get out more…’

 

_But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,_

_Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,_

_Making a famine where abundance lies,_

_Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel._

 

The automatic doors open for Victor, allowing the man to pass by without having to readjust the paper bags he held in his hands. He stepped out into the cold autumn air, breathing it in like it would be his last breath. He hadn’t realized just how  much the temperature had been dropping in the past days, but at this rate, he felt the need to expect the first snowfall of the year very soon. The year would soon be coming to a close.

 

He was running out of time.

 

‘I should start wearing layers,’ he thought absently, ignoring the previous mental note he’d made. He huffed, his arms gripping the bags tighter as he began the trek to the bus stop. It wasn’t like Victor didn’t have a car, quite the contrary, he had a very nice car. It was jet black and sleek, it’s frame stood out among the cars in the apartment parking lot. He bought some odd years ago, but he never drove it out much for a number of reasons. Primarily because the only time he ever needed to use it was to travel out to his publisher’s, which was in the next city over. Other than that, he took the bus whenever he needed to do more domestic things, such as going grocery shopping.

 

He enjoyed it really. It gave him a chance to people watch, something he’s picked up on in his early years. Much of his creative works stemmed from conversations he’s overheard, or stories he’s made up for a person he sees from afar. It was a useful tool he figured, one that kept him in touch with the rest of humanity whenever he thought he was the only one in the world.

 

As he approached the bench, he saw an unfamiliar figure there, his head bent low and his hands holding a familiar book. Immediately Victor’s interest was piqued by that alone, and his eyes wandered over the stranger curiously. Dark hair obscured his face, but Victor could make out the frames of a pair of glasses. He wore a thick looking jacket that was zipped all the way up to his chin. His pants were tan, much like the ones the employees of the grocery store wore, and for a moment Victor wondered if he worked there. A satchel was slung over his shoulders, bulky in appearance, filled with what Victor hadn’t a clue.  And thinlooking gloves adorned the man’s hands, hands that were holding…

 

Victor sat beside the man, giving him and his satchel enough space, placing his groceries bags onto the other side of him. He made no comment at first, trying to figure out the best way to initiate the conversation without coming off too strong. He glanced sideways at the bus routes chart, noting the time the next bus would be arriving. 11:30 A.M. He had a whopping five minutes.

 

He was running out of time.

 

Victor mentally shook his head. He took in a silent breath, turning just slightly to his unknown bus companion.

 

“ _W. Shakespeare, huh?_ ”

 

The man looked up from the book, as if having been suddenly drawn back into the real world. Victor was met with large brown orbs behind crafted glass. His face was soft looking, rounded ever so slightly. The stranger couldn’t have been more than 25 years old if Victor had to guess.

 

“He’s a favorite of mine,” Victor went on, “A real interesting author too I might add.”  

 

And then he waited, waited for the moment of recognition, either by a sudden gasp or shout or point, much like he imagined. And of course, it never did happen. It never does. Victor makes sure of that.

 

“Ah, he’s my favorite too,” the man finally said, casting his gaze back to the book. His voice was soft… gentle… familiarity rang in Victor’s head, but he couldn’t quite place where from his past he might have heard such a voice. The man continued, “I bet he is interesting though. Probably mysterious too since no one’s ever seen him.”

 

Victor only nods his head. The choice to remain anonymous under _W. Shakespeare_ was a suggestion from his publisher. He could hear the old man now, telling him that the price of fame and glory means to be exposed in every single possible way. Victor, 19 at that point, couldn’t imagine being in such a spotlight, and made the decision to never reveal his face or his true name. And in some ways, Victor was glad he made that decision. He gets to live comfortably and not be bothered like others might be, gets to lead an almost normal life, save from writing 24/7. But the one thing he hates the most is not being able to meet his readers, not being able to converse with them about the things he’s written, not being able to respond the letters that go through the publisher. He wants to be able to connect with his readers, but he then runs the risk of his identity being exposed.

 

So, his solution?

 

To talk to anyone and everyone he sees reading one of his works out in public. To be that passerby who loves W. Shakespeare too. To be a blip in someone’s life by just simply asking,

 

“What do you think of the play?”

 

The stranger looked up once more, and so briefly did their eyes meet, and so briefly did Victor wonder if the man could see through his facade. He wondered if the man knew how much _weight_ was being carried by such a simple, innocent question.

 

“Of _Ryne and Josephine_ specifically?” the stranger asked, gesturing to the book in his hands.

 

Victor nodded again. _Ryne and Josephine_ was probably one of his most famous works to date, according to his publisher. It’s sold the most copies nationwide, received the most awards and ranked the highest in hundreds of reader’s choice lists. It has some criticism of course, but every person that Victor’s talked to in regards to the book has only raved about how good ─

 

“It’s terrible.”

 

Victor’s train of thought shattered as he erupted into a small coughing fit. His companion startled, fumbling the book before it fell into his lap. The next thing Victor knew was that the stranger was patting his back awkwardly in attempts to help ease the coughs. “A-are you alright?!” he asked, Victor could hear his worry laced into his words.

 

Victor nodded once more, making sure to his mouth as his coughs soon died out, “Yeah… I apologize, I’ve just never met anyone… who didn’t like it.”

 

The stranger opened his mouth to speak, but right as he did, the sound of their approaching bus reached their ears, and they both looked up to see said bus pulling to a halt right in front of them. The stranger stood up first, pausing awkwardly, as if he were debating on whether or not he should help Victor. Victor waved his hand at him, letting him know that he was all right before moving to pick up his grocery bags.

 

He watched his stranger board the bus, scanning his pass quickly and moving to find a vacant seat. Victor did the same absently, juggling his grocery bags and his thoughts simultaneously. _It’s terrible… it’s terrible… it’s terrible…_ Why was it terrible? What was it that made the play terrible to the stranger? A million and one possibilities ran through his mind, but he knew none of them could be the real reason why. Victor heard the bus doors close behind him, and he peered down the aisle. It appeared that almost every seat was taken… all except for one.

 

Victor made his way down the aisle, making sure not to bump into any of the other passengers as the bus jolted forward. Once he made it to the very back, he plopped himself and his groceries down onto the vacant seat.

 

“So we meet again,” he said playfully, eyeing the same stranger as before next to him.

 

It seemed to catch the dark haired man off guard, but he gave Victor a small smile in recognition. Then the pair sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of other conversations and the world outside filling that void. Victor regularly uses the bus as transportation, and often times he’ll see the same faces over and over again. But this man, this man he’s never seen before. He didn’t know when the stranger would be getting off, or where the stranger was even headed.

 

He was running out of time.

 

“So…” Victor began, almost cautiously, “Why do you think _Ryne and Josephine_ is terrible?”

 

The stranger looked to him once more, paused in thought. Victor watched at him closely, noticing features he hadn’t before, such as the simple blue detailing of the frames, how they perfectly suited his almost messy hair and his pale skin.

 

“Well… I think it’s mainly because of how unrealistic their relationship seems to be,” the stranger said after his pause. Victor raised his eyebrow just so in surprise, the thought having never crossed his mind before. The stranger, sensing this, rushed, “I mean ─ I don’t know how to describe it really, but…whenever I think about love or romance or things like that, they’re not as intense, if that makes sense at all. I imagine them to be almost slow and soft in a way, and I don’t really see that with Josephine and Ryne’s relationship. It starts off so intense and ends the same way, there’s no room at all for tender moments to occur.”

 

“So romance is supposed to be mild, then?” Victor genuinely asks.

 

“I don’t think mild is the best word for it… but, I think the best way to put it is gentle. Romance should be gentle. I don’t know if I could personally handle such an intense love like Ryne and Josephine have for each other just because it seems so unattainable.”

 

Victor leans in close to the stranger, whispering only so that he could hear him. “Do you know what that’s like then? To have a gentle romance with someone?”

 

The stranger blushed then, and Victor couldn’t help but notice that the blush went down past his zipped up jacket. “N-no!” he stammered, almost defensively, but he reeled himself back quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t know what that’s like really. But I’d like to think that it’s the best kind of romance… if it’s too intense then I’d think everything would happen too fast and end too soon. And, if it were me, I don’t know if I would want something like that to end fast.”

 

Victor pulls back, thoughtful. He never thought about a gentle love before, really. He wants to ask the stranger more, but when he turns to him Victor sees him reaching up, pulling the pull string to signal the bus driver to stop at the next bus stop. Victor moves just enough for the stranger to pass by him. Within seconds they reach the bus stop, and the bus doors open once again.

 

Victor watches his stranger step off the bus, only to turn around and catch him staring. He pauses briefly, and, as if he decided at the last second, he waves to Victor almost sheepishly. Victor then finds himself reaching out to the stranger, another question rolling off his tongue,

 

“What’s your name?”

 

And as the stranger opens his mouth to reply, the bus doors close once more. The stranger’s eyes went wide, the last thing Victor sees of him as the bus begins to drive forward. Victor remains there, dumbstruck. He missed his chance. His moment of connection. Why does it hurt more than it should? He slumps back down into the seat, half lidded eyes moving to set their sights out the window. Instead however, he looks down.

 

The book. The stranger left it. Victor picks it up gently, carefully raising it to flip through it’s pages. With wonder, he sees how each and every page is covered in handwritten notes, thoughts, ideas, connections. And when he flips to the front page, he sees a set of initials on the top right corner.

 

_Y.K._

 

Holding the book close, Victor suddenly realizes that he missed his stop ages ago.

 

_Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament_

_And only herald to the gaudy spring._

_Within thine own bud buriest thy content_

_And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding._

 

Victor closes the door behind him with his foot, the sound of it’s slam echoing off barren walls. It startles Makkachin, and Victor hears his poodle hop off his bed and run across the hardwood floor. He sets his grocery bags on the ground beside him, bending down to pet Makkachin behind the ears.

 

“I’m sorry,” he cooed, “I didn’t mean to wake you. Your owner is just frustrated, that’s all.”

 

Makkahin nudges his head against Victor’s jacket as if to express that he understands. The action causes Victor to chuckle, but it falls short when he hears an unexpected thud. He looks down, his eyes falling onto a certain book that he had tucked away into his pocket beforehand. Slowly, Victor picks up the strangers’ copy of _Ryne and Josephine_ , and he takes the time again to flip through it’s pages. Curiously, Victor reads through the stranger’s notes once more without the rush this time. Most of the notes were illegible, either short sentences that didn’t make sense to him or symbols that indicated something that was beyond Victor. He moved to sit down in front of his apartment door, Makkachin already going to rest his head on Victor’s knee.

 

Why go through so much hassle for something you don’t even like? The question came up repeatedly in Victor’s mind, the question he couldn’t answer for himself. His gaze turned to his loving poodle, “What do you think Makkachin? Would you take the extra time to go through something too unrealistic?”

 

‘That says a lot about a man’s character you know.’

 

Victor’s head shot up quickly, his eyes locking onto the desk across room.

 

“I’m not quite sure what you mean…” Victor said aloud, rising slowly despite his dogs’ small whine. Cautiously he took several steps towards the desk, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk over there completely.

 

‘Why do through so much hassle for something you don’t even like?’ the pen repeated his question silently. ‘ _It’s terrible._ ’

 

The pen mimicked the stranger's voice, that soft and gentle voice that kept nagging the back of Victor’s mind. Where has he heard that voice before?

 

‘But the kid is right,’ the pen went on, ‘you can do so much better than that one play.’

 

“But how?” Victor asked exasperated. “I haven’t been able to come up with anything worth pursuing.”

 

‘Why did you pursue the young man?’

 

And that gave Victor pause. Why _did_ he pursue the young man to begin with?

 

“Because I wanted to see if he liked the play.”

 

‘No.’

 

“Because I wanted to see if he would recognize me.”

 

‘That’s a lie.’

 

“Because… I thought he would be nice to talk to.”

 

‘Closer, but not enough.’

 

“Because I… he…”

 

‘Warmer.’

 

“Because he said the play was terrible.”

 

‘Not quite.’

 

“Because he…”

 

And then a sudden realization dawned on him.

 

“... it was because of his voice… “

 

The pen made no reply, but it didn’t need to. Victor’s mind was racing a mile a minute. It was his _voice_. He hadn’t noticed it then, too caught up in the moment to really connect the dots but that stranger, that young man…

 

That young man’s voice was the exact same voice that had given him his namesake. That sweet, gentle voice from his dream so long ago.

 

Victor felt the incredible urge to thank the young man, but how? Would he ever see that young man again?

 

‘You need to thank him the only way you know how,’ the pen told him finally.

 

Victor suddenly found himself next to his desk then. When did he get all the way over here? The answer didn’t matter none. He sat down at the messy desk, his beloved pen laying right in front of him. He carefully made enough arm room on the desk to write, grabbing numerous pieces of paper. _You need to thank him the only way you know how..._ How would Victor even begin to thank a stranger such as the young man? He didn’t know a single thing about him or his character. Where was he from? Would he ever see him again?

 

‘You start with his voice… and you write from the heart… a gentle romance.'

 

Victor soon found himself writing with such fever, keeping him up throughout the day and well into the night.  

 

_Pity the world, or else this glutton be,_

_To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get down to business. 
> 
> So, essentially this is an AU in which Victor is actually Shakespeare, and the historical poet Shakespeare didn't exist. However, I will be making numerous allusions to some of Shakespeare's actual works (i.e. "Romeo and Juliet" and "Ryne and Josephine"), as well as actually implementing some of Shakespeare's sonnets, as they serve to break up the story in which a certain amount of time has elapsed. The sonnet that I used in this chapter is Sonnet I. More toward the beginning of the chapter (I believe, though I might be wrong about this) is an excerpt from the publisher of Shakespeare's sonnets, T. T., or Thomas Thorpe. 
> 
> I also want to express that I love poetry, especially Shakespearean poetry, and this entire thing came about one day during my English class. I made a joke about Shakespeare being in love with the young poet to a friend of mine, and then I said, "What if Victor was Shakespeare?". The rest is sort of history (and full of numerous jokes about Victor and Yuuri). 
> 
> If you're interested in learning more about Shakespeare and his sonnets, I would definitely recommend taking a couple of hours to learn about it and read some of the sonnets! It's pretty interesting!


End file.
